


Midnight Hands

by perryvic, Zaganthi (Caffiends)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Alternate Universe - Skyfall, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Multi, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-19 01:57:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2370209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perryvic/pseuds/perryvic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caffiends/pseuds/Zaganthi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He nipped gently at the man's neck, and heard the answering sigh. "You realise I was number two with SPECTRE."</p><p>"Yeah, I know," John said seriously. "But you could have pushed the button and damned the world. There's not an Agent out there pure as snow, it's useless to pretend that. This is a bloody business and both sides get covered in arterial spray one way or another. But you chose at the right point."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He didn't know why he went to these bloody work fetes. They'd rent an entire place out, boot the staff, open the taps, and drink themselves out in celebration of some major win in a never ending battle of nation on nation, or in this case, nation on crazed non state actor. And there were men dead, which made it a bit of an Irish wake, and a whole mess of stuff that John never kept up with. Work was like a giant skunkworks, and stopping to admire the workings too long usually ended in a demise, career or otherwise. He knew he'd survived a nice, harrowing rescue mission of 007 and a couple other poor bastards off some god fucking forsaken manmade island near India, and that was all he needed to know. It was best to enjoy the free booze, and keep his focus on his area of expertise.

'More suited to administration' had been the pithy summary on one of his appraisals which had been a load of bollocks. John knew they kept him on live missions mainly because of his medical training and the fact it was unusual to have a dead shot and a doctor at the same time. Ridiculous really. Of course, he wasn't even a double o anything.

Still, he wasn't up to jumping off buildings or running on top of moving trains. Apparently the prerequisite was to lack a decent modicum of self-preservation, and the room just shone around Sherlock Holmes as he basked in it. He probably lacked the sheer unbridled ego it took as well, even if he did like it when he worked with the man.

He was a sidekick and if Sherlock was to be believed a woefully inadequate one to be turning up when all the action was nigh on done. John liked to point out that the action was done because he turned up but that fell on deaf ears. The problem was, Sherlock really was that good.

Unbelievably good, even with his injuries. Stoic, too, even if he was moody about it, but stoic when it came down to brass tacks. He was sipping at his lager and watching, half listening to the admiring crowd when someone touched his shoulder.

He startled slightly and looked around. The rehabilitated assistant of their latest nemesis, who reading between the lines was responsible for the mission success. He had been his main patient in the evac and John was frankly surprised to see him up. "You should be sitting down," he blurted out immediately, the epitome of all you shouldn't do in the situation when face with a spy of the opposite number.

"I should be dead, too. I wanted to thank you for that." He'd been shot twice, once to the shoulder, and once skimming the temple in what John wanted to call the closest call he'd seen for a bullet to the head that could've done so much more. "Cheers."

"I can drink to your health at least," John said. "Now please sit down? You've probably got a concussion and bullet wounds aren't like the movies."

"Not the first time I've been shot, you know. Goes with the job." He gestured with his chin towards one of the funny high tables with bars stools around them. "Or are you reluctant to chat with a twice turncoat?"

"Doesn't make it any less painful," John said. "People not talking to you? That doesn't seem right." He was a hero for what he had done. People needed to remember that.

"More like no one knows what to do with me." He had a nice, low, even voice, a bit of a northern accent, and John found himself moving to sit with him. "Not sure myself. Circumstances of it all were weird."

"I think a lot of people find themselves thinking that around Sherlock," John said dryly. He sat himself down. "What are they doing with you the, it is Seb isn't it? That's what you answered when we were evac-ing."

Covered in blood and completely groggy. It made him wonder what asshole down in medical had probably let him loose for the party, no doubt hoping he'd mix painkillers with alcohol and go out quietly. "Yeah, I go by Seb, Dr. Watson. I think once I've filed enough paperwork, I might get picked up by you lot. Like I said, circumstances with Moriarty were... strange."

"Really? In what way?" Aside from the man being a psychopathic sociopath with a sadistic streak a mile wide.

"I used to be one of you." He gestured towards Sherlock, halfway lifting his nearly empty glass. "And sometimes sacrifices are made. I came over from SAS, I understand that, logically. Viscerally... viscerally, I still have anger management problems that made money a good deal more appealing than god and country."

"Yeah I get that. The army demands a lot one way or another," John agreed. "Let me guess, Sherlock did his mind-reading thing on you."

"Yeah, it was a bit brutal. Felt like a takedown with a therapist. I have to say this place is hiring a better calibre of agent than they used to." He leaned an elbow on the table, and finished his drink, moving casually. "He's done it to you a well?"

"Oh yeah. In our first meeting he didn't even say hello, just pointed out where I had served, that I was a closet adrenalin junkie and my leg injury was psychosomatic," john answered smiling a little. "You get used to a lack of secrets with him around."

"I guessed as much." He set his glass down, and then glanced at John's. "I'll get the next round if you'll tell me your first name, Dr. Watson."

"It's John," he replied. "And if I know him, which I do, you will get bugger all in the way of thanks from him. But hey, you know, thanks for not allowing the apocalypse to happen."

"You're welcome. Hacking banks and assassinating crime bosses, I was okay with. Deploying nuclear arsenals... is too much. Doesn't take a massive backbone to want to stop that." He shifted off of his stool, and good as his word seemed to be headed for the open bar.

John smiled a little as he watched him. He was a fine looking man to his eye at least. He liked the hard lean lines. He wondered absently if Sherlock had tried to seduce him. It was a paradox but Sherlock could act sexy at the click of a finger.

It was all for the job, of course, but it wouldn't have shocked him. He'd seen the man charm women who wouldn't be charmed, and he knew he'd slept with quite a few, though there was some element of myth there. Who *didn't* want to sleep with Sherlock Holmes? 

Seb sauntered back, carrying two pints casually, one handed. His shot shoulder was still giving him trouble, or he was being careful of it.

John knew he hadn't been that stoic after his shoulder shot. Certainly not up and about a couple of days afterwards. "Cheers, thanks," he said as Seb joined him. "Got to make the most of the bar."

"Oh yeah. Particularly since they're all celebrating Moriarty's death. There should be a disco ball, he would've appreciated that." He was all smiles at John, taking another sip of his lager as he sat down. "How's field work been for you?"

"Pretty good, when they call for me," John replied. "It's... well, it's usually evacs and rescue missions to be honest. I'm sort of...anti-suave. I have a tendency to wear jumpers."

Most people laughed, and thought John was joking. Or they took it honestly and looked a bit disappointing around the eyes. Seb was smiling, a strangely knowing expression. "It's just a question of how much of a show you're up to putting on. I clean up all right, but I've been known to wear a cardigan with a flannel button down. All those years of the army dressing you."

"Certainly made decisions in the morning easy enough," John agreed. "So SAS...how did you get into that to start with?"

"Naturally good sniper, and an officer. I excelled, and they promoted me over. Then MI6 hired me as an agent, after mil intel supported them on mission." He took a sip of his drink. "And you?"

"Doctor, military doctor, showed an aptitude for running out under fire in risky situations. Wounded, picked up by MI6 before I lost the will to live," he semi-joked. He probably would have gone crazy with normality.

"What war?" It was hard to guess, he supposed, and hard to tell when Seb had left the service, never mind the organization.

"Afghanistan," he replied. He shrugged a little. "I guess most of us ended up in that one, one way or another."

"I was working here by then. And still found myself in country." He looked a little distant and thoughtful as he took another sip. "And that way lies misery. Sorry."

"Didn't mean to bring up bad memories," John said sincerely. It was a dangerous thing to touch on recollections of that time.

The edge of his mouth tugged into a smile again. "It gets hard to avoid. So. You like the work here?"

"I like the field work," John replied. "But I guess in some ways I'm like a...grounding mechanism for someone like Sherlock." He shrugged a little smiling. "There are worse things to do."

"There are." And Seb had probably done them from that particular tone of voice. The noise level in the place was getting a bit much, and there was a circle of people cheering Sherlock on in what looked like a drinking game sleight of hand. "You want to get in on that?"

"Do you?" John asked. Seb was pleasant company and, well he'd decided to hang around with him one way or another. Sherlock tended to get a little much when he had been drinking.

Sharp and harder to deal with emotionally, and sometimes John just wasn't up to being the man's punching bag. "Best I lay low, given recent events."

 

"I think I'll hang out with you," John said. "As you've been buying the free drinks." He grinned a little. "I'm not a big party person really."

"I'm a bit under the weather to really get into it, personally,” he grinned. "I once saw an upcoming agent drunkenly challenge M."

"...Oh god, really?" John tried to get his head around that. "What happened?"

"He was exiled to the Southeast Asia station for a number of years before returning home." The voice behind them startled John more than he wanted to admit, though he saw M almost as soon as he started talking. The new M, just the last couple of years, a hardnosed technical official, and John was never sure what to make of the man. "Dr. Watson. Seb."

"Ah, M." Seb twisted a little and raised his glass in acknowledgement. "This is a bit low brow for you."

"I believe in mingling," M replied without even a twitch of amusement. John personally believed he had had his sense of humour surgically removed as a prerequisite for the job. It was probably stuffed and mounted somewhere.

 

As the prior M had been and the M before that likely. They gave up names and identities, but so did everyone, and when they died the real name went up on the memorial wall. Sherlock wielded his name and his number like a weapon, but most of them didn't.

"This table isn't mingling quality, M." He gestured towards 007. "The party's that way."

"You mean Sherlock holding court," M replied. "He does so like to be the centre of attention."

"You can say that again," John said under his breath. "Other agents were involved."

"Look at it this way, John. When it comes time for someone to take the fall for an entire mission where other agents were involved, it'll still be him at the center of attention." He finished his drink off, watching John and not M.

"Him? He's untouchable at the moment," John said and shrugged only a little embarrassed that he was heard. That was free drink for you. "He's too smart to get caught out." He did admire Sherlock, a great deal in fact but every operation was down to more than one man.

"No one is too smart to get caught out." Seb cleaned his throat, glancing sideways at M, who was quiet and looking thoughtful. Or withdrawn. There was a cheer from the crowd gathered around Sherlock, laughing.

He definitely did not need a barely tolerated sidekick hanging around. "I suppose that is true...otherwise he wouldn't need rescuing," John replied with a faint smile.

"He'd be out there on a paddle boat on his own," Seb agreed, mouth quirking again. M moved on, without a word, but John still felt his presence a little, oddly chilling as he forged into the gathered crowd. "And it would be hand built and solar powered. Somehow."  


John gave a huff of a surprised laugh. "Yes, some gadget and a sweet wrapper or something." He looked around. Yes they were all on their way to being completely rat-arsed.

Seb was eyeing his pint as if he was weighing whether to get another one or not. "I'm going to try a shitty old pickup line, and you can hold it against me or not, but... your place or mine?"

John was surprised and not a little flattered. "Do you have a place?"

"I think I've railroaded my way to full access of the infirmary bathroom," he smirked a little, "but no, not really."

"Sounds very romantic," John joked. Well, obviously the attraction was mutual. "If you're up for it we can try mine such as it is."

He was mostly sure the man wasn't on any kind of house arrest, or containment, given that he'd shown up to the fete apparently unescorted. M hadn't seemed concerned. "Better than watching idolatry and drinking games."

"Well I'm not going to say no," John said lightly. "If nothing else it'll be a break from here. C'mon, it's not far but we'll get a taxi."

And they could save energy for, well, whatever your place or mine specifically entailed. John hoped it involved a good shaving, but he'd take anything just then, and Seb's expression was bright and alert as he shifted off of the barstool. "Then lead the way. I'm afraid I don't know my way around London like I used to."

They slipped out of the party, and John tried not be faintly stunned and just a little smug that Seb was interested in him rather than Mr 'double o' suave himself. It wasn't like he would be making a convincing pitch at him or anything because of all the people in the room he was probably the one with the least access to anything interesting.

He stitched people up, and mostly he found out vaguely non useful personal secrets, nothing worthy of a mission, nothing worth shaking out of someone. Once they were outside the bar, Seb snaked an arm around John and leaned in for a kiss.

He was a little surprised but after the initial surprise, leaned into it. It really had been too long since he'd been out with a guy.

It was a good kiss, a little desperate but sparking something definitely. It left a warm feeling that spread from his chest down, and that was all John needed as he pulled back a little and tried to hail a taxi.

It was slightly difficult to concentrate. Everything was rushing to attention away from his brain but he managed it, garbling out his address that was only a ten minute tube stop away really.

He just didn't want to go on the tube. Hated the tube, got inside and thought of everything that could go wrong at every stop, of everything their own people could or might someday do to the tube. They slid into the back, and Seb started kissing him again right away.

"A bit eager are we?" John murmured kissing back. He didn't mind but people were rarely overcome with passion when they met him.

"Mmm, sometimes it's just nice to meet someone and it's not to fucking get a leg over." Which was a compliment, John supposed.

"Yeah, wouldn't get you much there," John murmured even as they carried on kissing. He tried to remember not to grip any of the injury sites he remembered treating.

He'd passed the man on to other surgeons almost immediately, so it wasn't as if he were a patient ethics violation waiting to happen, and John could just... Relax and enjoy that there was a lean, muscled, handsome man who was pressing him into the backseat of the taxi, kissing over to his earlobe. "That's good...” he murmured. "Fuck, Seb, save a bit for my place.” It wouldn't be long but right now it felt an eternity away.

He exhaled, more a sound and a faint scrape of teeth against his earlobe. "You taste good. And competency is sexy."

"What medical shouting at people?" John asked half joking.

He laughed, smiling as he pulled back a little. "Given that I'm still here, yeah, apparently it worked?"

"We get special training in shouting complete rubbish that sounds technical you know," he murmured as he leaned in to taste Seb's neck. He could taste a little antiseptic lingering

"I knew I missed out on something interesting that they taught the med types. Must go well with the acronym training we got in the army." He exhaled in a thoughtful noise, and glanced up to the rearview mirror as if remembering there was some poor bugger driving the taxi.

"Nearly there," John said noting his look. "As we appear to be cutting to the chase. Not that I'm objecting."

"We can slow things down a bit." He seemed to be trying to gauge John's response, and maybe the guy was just horny. Hell, it had been a while for John as well, so there was no reason to *not* go full tilt.

"I'm really not objecting," John replied backing his words up with an assault on Seb's neck. "If you're not."

"Oh, I want to do things to you that're probably more athletic than I'm feeling," Seb offered, sliding a hand underneath of John's coat. The taxi coasted to a stop, and they were probably the first but not the last overly amorous fare the man was going to get for the night. It was still early.

John tossed the man some money and hastily got out fumbling for his keys. It was a nice enough place considering. "Just in here,” he said unnecessarily but his mind was already in overdrive about what Seb might be thinking.

It was up a flight of stairs, but every step John took, hitched as it was, he as wondering what he might have left out that would be weird, or what someone would judge when they saw. He didn't bring people back often enough to keep it up all the time...

They were barely inside with the light on when Seb started kissing him, though, so maybe he needed to worry less about his housekeeping.

It turned very hot and heavy very rapidly. Fingers under clothes, seeking skin. Jostling for position, gripping at each other, lips tasting skin here, there everywhere. He liked having an active partner, and liked getting out of his clothes in a comfortable hurry. Seb was tall, taller than him, and he could feel it as he was backed up further into the room.

He got his hand up the side of Seb's shirt, fingers on warm skin running over what felt like scar tissue instead of the smooth muscle he was expecting. It made for a feel he liked, even recognised from his own injuries although Seb had more than his share. They were randomly moving around shedding clothing all over, more interested in the contents than what they were getting rid of. His focus was solely on the man, the feel of him, the scent of him, his need. It felt good to be wanted -- not with whatever expectations his girlfriend usually had, but just wanted, raw, pure want, even if he was half sure any decent bloke with a pulse might've done just then. He could smell antiseptic, and the lingering familiar smells of the infirmary as Seb leaned into John, pushed him up against his hallway wall while he kissed at his neck, bent into him. He needed to turn a light on when they got to the bedroom or they were going to trip over something.

Or the fact that as soon as the light came up Seb reached over and turned it off. "Sorry, don't want this to turn into a charity match."

“Just wanna get to the bed without breaking our necks," John. "Hope you can see in the dark." What the hell, they could trip over stuff.

Seb nuzzled at his neck, and looped an arm around his waist, still walking him backwards. John felt a shoe under his foot, but deftly nudged it away. "I see well enough. Sometimes, you're just not in the mood to explain your scars..."

"I did see them before," John replied just about managing to stay up right as he tried to ease in the direction of the bedroom, hoping there was still enough lube left.

"Some of them. I'm a little fucked up and self-conscious about them," Seb murmured, squeezing John's left asscheek as they finally reached the bed.

"Not going to worry me," John said. "I kinda like this rugged look." And the strength and something that spoke to his need to fix things.

It was part of what made working with Sherlock bearable, that there would be things to fix and clean up after and he was useful. It was a horrible aspect of himself to be aware of, but the psych screening at work had made it abundantly clear.

Sebastian laughed as they manuevered onto the mattress. "If you're sure..."

It was always nicer to have sex in the light

"Get over here and soon we'll be too busy to give a fuck about anything," John replied as he made sure they tumbled onto the bed.

Seb fumbled the bedside light on, and then leaned back in to pin John down against the mattress, mouth to mouth and oh, Christ, yes, body to body felt damned good naked.

He was lost then to the need to kiss and touch and feeling fire leap to the surface of his skin. John ached with the surge of arousal that made him desperate.

He *wanted*, and it felt good to give in to it, to have a gorgeous man kneeling over him, kissing his way down John's stomach as if he'd already decided what he wanted to do.

John grinned. "Got a plan have we?" he asked admiring Seb's lean muscles.

"Take the edge off, and maybe we can just fool around for a while and I can enjoy you." He pressed a kiss against John's stomach. Lovely, lovely lean muscles, even with the pale hard lines and gauges of scar tissue that ran over his shoulder, and down his back, all the way down, shit. "I like your build."

"Yours is amazing," John said appreciatively. "I like that plan.” It was a brilliant plan, and amazing plan and he just wanted to touch and feel.

He was stupidly tipsy, he decided, massaging his hands over the man's shoulders as Sebastian kissed a spot on his hip that made his balls ache.

The tightness in the muscles was evident and he wanted to knead at it. Later because he really was going to go off like a teenager at this rate. It had been a long time really.

Stupidly long, particularly given how often Sherlock got laid. He curled his fingers, brushed the back of Seb's neck and got an unexpected moan as the man cupped his balls.

Back of the neck was a trigger point. He grinned and teased at that area deliberately, seeing if he could get a few more moans and groans.

The stroking seemed to be working, and Seb shifted down further, tucking his legs up under him so as to not fall off the bed as he leaned in and kissed the side of John's dick.

"Oh my fucking god," John said and groaned. "This is going to be embarrassingly short."

He sat up a little still petting at Seb. "We're grown men. No one has to be impressed here..." He looked up at John, caught his eyes, and the closed his mouth around the head of John's cock.

It made him gasp feeling impossibly hot. "God, yes..." He put fingers in Seb's hair.

There was no point in pretending to be more suave than he was, and it let him relax, leg muscles clenching as he rocked up a little and Seb responded by sucking him in deeper, letting John fuck his mouth slowly.

It was amazing and he was a little less restrained than he should have been, pushing up into Seb's mouth instinctively. He needed more and pushed for it, swearing mentally he was going to repay the favour. It wouldn't be a hardship to do, given how Sebastian was sucking, firm and slow and lazy, and favouring one arm as he leaned into him. So John somehow wasn't expecting the fingers curling behind his balls.

"Oh my god!" He nearly swallowed his tongue. "Fuck, Seb, I could come right now."

The slow lazy stroke against his perineum made him twist, rocking his hips desperately as Seb kept sucking.

"Definitely gonna..." He couldn't help the burn, the push of need. He was getting sucked off by a really sexy agent, and that was his fantasy life right there coming true. He made a whimpering noise and climaxed almost uncontrollably like he was a fucking teenager.

It was almost shameful, getting off like that, that fast. Seb didn't seem to care, swallowing and pulling back to kiss at John's hip lazily. The skin on his shoulder looked like it had been grafted, once upon a time. "Was it good for you?"

"Seriously. I haven't come that quickly since I was eighteen," he said controlling his breathing. "It's not like I've even done anything yet."

He chuckled, and shifted up to kiss his way back up along John's side, fingers stretching out over John's stomach. "We have time, right? Nowhere to be until, the morning."

"Mm, yeah." John pulled him in close. "I want to unknot your back and neck. Especially your neck, you make great noises when I touch there.

He pressed lazy kisses against John's mouth and jaw, still tasting like lager and a little like semen now. Just a hint of musk there against John's own lips. "If you promise to watch the bullet wound, I could do with a massage..." There were ridges and dips under his fingers, tense muscles and scarred skin. Yeah, someone had done a number on Seb at some point, two or three times.

"Oh I can do that...” John murmured. He wanted to learn his body. "Lie down, face down...I've got some oil around here somewhere." He used it on his own leg when it was stiff.

Just then, his leg was the only thing that was stiff, but he needed time to recover before he could come around again. Sebastian shifted, and stretched out beside John, smiling still. "This is very luxurious."

"Make sure you don't stress the shoulder," he ordered and found the oil, warming a little in his hands. Then he started to work it in, little by little, kneading gently to start with at the skin and tissue that crackled with trapped lactic acid.

He stretched his shoulder carefully, looking over his shoulder at John. It all felt very good under his fingertips, warm and multi-textured. "Mmmhm. Christ you have good hands."

"I should hope so," John murmured. "Surgeons hands. Your neck is a mess. This will hurt a bit." He pressed in hard, manipulating muscle and tissue.

He exhaled in a shudder, and stretched his hands at his sides. "Christ. I haven't had a massage in about a decade."

"No one has touched you like this?" John was amazed at that. Who could pass up wanting to touch him all over? "Your spine is crunchy too."

"Yeah, circumstances." He laid his head down again, and closed his eyes. "Presumed dead, on the run.... Doesn't leave a lot of room for massages."

"Just relax," John said. "You don't have to go anywhere." He didn't want him to. He wanted him relaxed and wanting to stay.

John was buzzed and comfortable and intent on what he was doing, rubbing and pressing slow circles at muscles that cracked and popped slowly. "Mmmhm, I'm relaxed. God this is good."

"I intend to take a bit of time over it," John replied leaning down to kiss his neck.

He got the shudder he wanted, and Sebastian shifted his legs a little restlessly. "Christ, I think I've been missing out on this..."

"I like to feel you," John said. "Under my fingers...your skin. Not just you back. I want to massage all over your body. "

"Uhnm, am I being set up?" He laughed, looking over his shoulder at John again. "I'm a fucking mess."

"Set up? Set up to carry on what you were doing earlier and then some." John answered. "Erotic massage is an art and… you are very sexy."

Nothing but the truth. Maybe he could massage his cock.

There was a one night stand, after all, and then there was enjoying himself slowly and sort of seeing where things headed. Sebastian laughed, quiet and slow, pressing his face against John's sheets as he flexed his shoulders. "You're going to turn me into putty."

"Not all of you I hope," John grinned deliberately working down over his ass and thighs.

There were scars there, but fewer -- more deliberate seeming, and it wasn't off-putting, more curious and sad. He shifted a leg, squirming as John's fingers touched him. "Ticklish."

"Really? I'll remember that." He compensated with more pressure so it wouldn't be ticklish and then said. "Can I do your front as well?"

He didn't answer, just shifted and started to turn over, a luxurious sprawl that belied the fact that his muscles were tense. "I assure you that, despite appearances, everything works."

"Counting on it," John said but still moved up to work on his chest, opting to straddle over him to lean into the motions.

"Uhm." He exhaled in a slow laugh, and lifted his hands to touch John's side. "Bloody hell, I like that. You feel good on me..."

"Mmm.” John deliberately leaned forwards as he massaged so he could rub and slide a little against Seb's skin. "Like this?"

"Like that." He shifted his hips, and John could feel the man's erection against his arsecheek. His hand wandered back, fingers teasing at John's spine. "God you're solid."

"I do still have to do the PT," John murmured though Seb's muscles were definitely better defined. He roamed downwards a little. "Going for a couple tonight because I can massage you in a way that well make you explode but I really want some of that cock."

He watched the man process it, watched the flush of red on his face and the way his eyes lit up when he carefully rocked his hips up. "Fuck, I want to see you stretched out on top of me."

"Decisions decisions..." John grinned. "What would you like for starters? A hand job to end all hand job or me riding you like a champion?"

"I'd rather not disappoint you if my stamina fails me. That riding me like a champion sounds pretty tempting." He stretched his fingers out against John's back, teasing lower slowly.

"Pretty tempting from here too," John replied. He leg would make him pay but what the hell. He'd toss the lube on the bed and fumbled around for it before handing it to Seb. "I could do this myself, but...”

"No, no, that's the waste of a good opportunity..." He popped the top off of the lube, making a show of smearing it on his fingers. "Just a slightly different massage." 

"Yeah," and it was hard to believe he barely knew the man he was encouraging to get that intimate with him.

It had been a long time since he'd gotten really well fucked, and there was no harm in a one night stand. Not when the man sliding his fingers up his ass was moving slowly, circling one slick finger against his hole. "Condoms?"

"Somewhere on the bed." Oh god that felt good. He had come already but things felt very good.

Sensitive and just ready for it, the slow press of a finger into him, Sebastian smiling like a wolf as he slid his other hand up to toy with John's nipples. His teeth were very white and perfectly spaced, odd. "You're lovely flushed."

He took a breath as he felt that entrance and then made a soft moan. "It's been a while."

"Mmm, same. But you never forget how it works..." He leaned up, kissed John's stomach. It was an awkward position, but it distracted him from the slow thrust in and back out. 

"I hope not. Mm. I'm getting impatient to get on you," John said truthfully enough.

He liked the other man's reactions, the way he was obviously turned on, and delighted at the same time. And John could relax, blame the booze, and be bloody shameless about wanting to get fucked. The press of a second finger made him groan and rock into it. "Soon enough."

"Can't be soon enough," he breathed again. "I'm going to ride you slow and easy to start with, twist a little because if you've never had that you've missed that, but I'm going to drive you crazy with it until you want to godamn pound me into the mattress."

"That's a mean thing to do to man whose shoulder was shot," Sebastian laughed.

"Really?" John tried to look innocent. "You mean you don't want me to? Well then. We could just sit around having a cup of tea."

"Only if it’s a body shot." He curled his fingers, stroking John's insides slowly. "Christ, look at you..." Hard again already, and that felt pretty good.

"Mm. I must be ready now," he half begged. "Please?" He squirmed a little.

He felt the slow withdrawal of fingers, of Seb settling down against the mattress again while he cast about for the condoms John had grabbed. There was that aching moment of emptiness to feel, before the other man tore the foil wrapper with the edge of those pristine teeth, and thumbed the condom out. "Oh, you're going to enjoy this."

"I'm hoping you will too," he said smiling. Finally, this looked like it was going to actually happen

For once, Sherlock Holmes, bloody professional cockblock, wasn't getting in the way. Sebastian reached down between them, fumbled for a moment, and then John felt the slow slick pressure of being breached.  


It was fucking fantastic, though he went both ways with topping and bottoming, he was very much enjoying this.

Slow luxurious push upwards, Seb settling fingers at his hips once he was in deep enough. His face was flushed, half exertion, half want, and John liked putting a look of want on someone's face. "Slow enough?"

"Oh yeah...” He felt the stretching, the feel of it. He pushed himself down settling in, half lidding his eyes at the sensation.

It burned, and it ached, and it pooled in his balls and his stomach, adding heat to the fire to move more, move faster, never mind that he'd already come once. His leg was going to kill him, but when Seb thrust up, he thrust down to meet him, working himself hard onto the other man as his thick dick spread John.

It was wonderfully satisfying and the endorphins were kicking in making movement easier and he started a slow easier rocking motion with a hip twist he'd learned some time ago.

It helped to get around a bit, helped him learn new things, new tricks, and the look on the other man's face as he thrust counterpoint to that was priceless, breathless as his hands flexed and he leaned up to try and change their positions, hauling John in closer without pulling out of him. "Fuck, fuck..."

"Oh god, yeah...” He was staring at Seb now, the look on his face that was somehow smoothed away of anxiety and stress and made him look almost boyish. It was startling in his difference and John just wanted to keep seeing that as he rocked and slid, and twisted and pushed while still in that close grip.

Seb scooted them back, closer to the headboard, and it worked better, gave John more leverage to work with, gave them both leverage, as the other man leaned back against the headboard and started to thrust harder up into him. "Uhn, hold on, I'm almost..."

"Yeah, do it," he groaned. "Harder. Need it." He wasn't going to come himself but he was enjoying the build.

Slow and he could feel when the man beneath him hit that particular edge, when he lost his control and just started to *move*, desperate fast rocking up into John, hands everywhere, gripping hard at him.

That as a hell of a turn on. It was raw and needy and none of the spy studied smooth seduction. It was just honest need and desire fucking him hard and him thrusting back to match the movements.

No practice, just hard losing of control, and he kissed at John's neck, breathing hard. Then he seized up, went tense and gave a few last thrusts. "Fuck, fuck, sorry..."

John sprawled forward panting a little. "Fuck...what you sorry for?" he managed dazed.

"Wanted to get you to come again." He chuckled a little, still holding tightly to John.

"Time for that later," John said. What the hell, he was a "cuddler" and he didn't care. He pretty much wrapped himself around Seb. 

There was no sense on trying to cling to some kind of overrated dignity when the other man had his cock still up his ass. Seb sighed against his skin. "Well, perhaps we can do that cup of tea in the meantime, too."

"In a bit," John replied feeling comfortable and warm lying on top of Seb. "You're comfortable."

"I've been told I make an excellent mattress." And his cheekbone felt hard enough to cut something, as he nuzzled in against John. "Do you work in the morning?"

"Not tomorrow," John said feeling a bit drowsy. "Otherwise I wouldn't have been drinking." Too easy to have alcohol still in the blood.

He knew that, knew it and stuck to it by a rule. "I suspect they'll want me back in the morning. Still, quite a bit of time." With one big hand idling down his back to toy at the edge of John's asshole, where his cock was just starting to go soft.

"Eh, it's not like they don't know where you are," John said. "I'm sure half of them would have seen us leave."

He hummed assent, tracing the edge of John's asshole before he started to pull out. "Still, you probably don't want them to come looking for me. Gets messy, they might suspect you're a hostage or something, I don't know. I'll spare you the broken glass and leave at a reasonable time in the morning."

"I feel oddly mellow about being your hostage," John replied smiling into Seb's skin. "Maybe it's a kink."

He nipped gently at the man's neck, and heard the answering sigh. "You realise I was number two with SPECTRE."

"Yeah, I know," John said seriously. "But you could have pushed the button and damned the world. There's not an Agent out there pure as snow, it's useless to pretend that. This is a bloody business and both sides get covered in arterial spray one way or another. But you chose at the right point."

He made a quietly impressed noise, sliding his fingers back up along John's spine, leaving him empty but still very close. "Thought it best to check."

It meant something that he had wanted that too. "Don't worry about it. I'm not completely oblivious. People just think I am."

"Mmm, oblivious the wrong word. Calm is better. Non-pulsed. Unshakable." He scooted down a little, pulling John with him. He did make an excellent mattress. "How big is your shower?"

"Big enough for two," John replied with a little smile. "We can try that in a bit."

Considering the man had been one of the most fear in their community, this was all surprisingly easy and John was pretty sure not how most agents dealt with their opposite numbers. But that was why he wasn't usually out there running an op. It was turning into a pretty good thing after all.

"Big enough for two," John replied with a little smile. "We can try that in a bit."

Considering the man had been one of the most feared in their community, this was all surprisingly easy and John was pretty sure not how most agents dealt with their opposite numbers. But that was why he wasn't usually out there running an op. It was turning into a pretty good thing after all.

And even better if he could turn it into a regular thing.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

He hadn't run off before breakfast, even if that had partially been his plan. Watson's bed was warm and inviting, and he was tired. He was bone deep, soul deep, tired. Exhausted and drained and unable to articulate what he thought was going to happen next. Eventually, they'd bring the hammer down on him, and he needed to be ready for whenever that happened.

After-all, they were giving a twice turncoat *far* too long a leash. Particularly since they'd tried to kill him the first time. He arrived back to the facility via taxi, though, and there were no armed guards waiting for him.

It was an improvement on previous situations at least. His life had become more surreal which considering his association with SPECTRE was saying something.

He swiped in with his quite temporary badge, and then started up the stairs. Seb supposed he needed to report back to the infirmary, but he wanted to see the old memorial wall, and wanted to see how far he could get before they decided to corral him. There had to be a reason why they were letting him loose.

Maybe they were giving him enough rope to hang himself with. That might be their style.

The memorial wall just had an atmosphere that encouraged silence. There were a lot of names on there he knew. Some even he had been responsible for...it was strange to be standing looking at his deeds written out before him.

After a moment of letting it all jump out at him, he tucked his hands into his pockets, and slowly worked his way through the agency's history. Just names on the wall. He wondered how many young agents rushed past, busy busy busy, on their way to ambition and a better life, and didn't want to think about what would happen to them. 

Seb knew he had a brick up there, too. No rank, no idea of who he was, what his history had been, that the last M had set him up for death. Just one more dead agent who they all thought they were faster and better than. 

"A bit strange coming back from the dead isn't it?" a voice said behind him and that was impossible. That was someone who had been dead for...no. No, because Paul wouldn't have left him to rot if he had been around. Not one of his trainees.

"Now I'm sure I'm dead." He cocked an eyebrow, halfway turning around. It was hard to feel jovial standing there in the seat of his betrayal, but Christ. His mentor. "How have they not forcibly retired you?"

Paul was showing signs of having experienced a very rough time but his eyes were piercing blue. "They like to wheel me out on occasion as a shining example or a horrible warning." He smiled a bit, that quirk of a smile that his trainees would have sold their souls to get aimed at them. "Heard you came back in, you think I could stay away?"

He exhaled, and turned back toward the wall, looking for the place where he'd seen Paul's brick once upon a time. "So, do they just buff your name out and then etch it back in, or is it caulking they peel off when you die?" So fucking loyal. More loyal than Seb was, but they'd left him to put himself back together. Abandoned him, all of them. 00s didn't have friends when they were marked off for disposal.

"They get royally pissed off when they come back from the dead," Paul said. "Means getting a new marble facia or hoping like hell someone dies with a similar name." Paul shrugged a little lopsidedly. "Guess why I'm here?"

His chest hurt, trying to think of answers and pushing them back down. He wanted to push Paul down that delicately curved flight of stairs behind him, wanted to make him tell him what the *fuck* he'd done to deserve what had happened to him. If anyone even fucking knew more than that he'd gone rouge. 

Seb kept his hands in his pockets instead, and tipped his head down, tongue stuck behind his molars for a moment in thought. "Mmmh. To put a bullet in my head?"

"If I was meant to that aside from telling them to fuck off, you wouldn't see it coming. Nah, I'm your leash. Or you're mine. I'm not sure. Not exactly considered fit for active duty, haven't been since they found me." Paul shifted. "They reckon I can make you talk. I pointed out I trained you, I can't make you talk about shit. No one can make you talk. But I guess I might understand a bit more than the suits."

His tongue caught at the edge of the prosthetic in his mouth, and he toyed with it, watching Paul. He'd used to do that with his cyanide tooth, back in the day, never expecting it to fail him. It was a stupid nervous habit to have, self-soothing, all of that psych pattern shit they liked to dump on him. A hundred tells that made him a shitty agent. Holmes had none of them, from his years of watching the man. 

"What happened to you?" Easier than talking about himself.

"Something a bit similar to what happened to you I think," Paul said. "Let’s get some shitty coffee and do a mutual debrief. I'll borrow an office."

He gave a rough laugh, hands clenched into fists. "What, was there a rash of offing us?"

"Mmm. A certain style of not fitting," he replied. "In those days, there were a few...personality conflicts. We weren't the only ones. After us, remember Anton? Beresford and Wright? Similar thing. Impossible mission, killed in action. How fucking sad, what a shame, just another brick in the memorial wall.”

Christ. Seb edged in closer to Paul, and gestured to the stairs with a jerk of his head. He knew what his damage was, extensive as it was, knew that broken bones never healed right and prosthetic pieces and bone replacements would eventually become untenable. That everything ground together at calcified edges and he had to push through stiffness and pain. He felt liquid after the night at Watson's, positively relaxed, and that bought him cover. "My cyanide tooth didn't kill me."

"They got mine out when I was unconscious," he said. "Bastards. This way… it really is shitty coffee."

"Not surprising. We could go out, come back. They didn't seem to mind that I disappeared last night." He wanted a nice coffee, a doppio of espresso that he could savour. With MI6 closing in on them and tightening the noose, he'd spent more and more time on the run, and the creature comforts he liked had slipped away entirely.

"They knew where you were," Paul said and gave a sharp bright smile. "Really fucked with them though. Heard some agents talking about it."

Paul was walking slower than he had before, and down the stairs he wasn't doing the old edge of the stairs smooth ankle motion he'd done before. Interesting, so Seb slowed his pace, let the man linger along the hand rail. "What were they saying?"

"Something about not expecting you to tap that. The betting pool was on Holmes. And what point was there in you seducing a medic." Paul raised his eyebrows at him. "You had breakfast before you got here? Food's okay."

"Pancakes. Box mix, but quite good." He kept his hands in his pockets, kept watching Paul's motions. "He was very surprising. Knew who I was, didn't mind, rather comfortable with the scars." Didn't seem to comment that he'd used an inordinate amount of the man's mouthwash before heading out for the day. "There never has to be a point in why you seduce someone."

"For a lot of them that's pretty much it." They went to the coffee machine and compared to a lot of things he drank it was okay, just not brilliant. "There's an office or two up the corridor. Let’s take it over."

"I'm sure it's bugged." Still, he clutched the cup in one hand, and let Paul lead the way. "Shame they've started to train them all so narrowly."

"Q needs to get his rocks off somehow," Paul acknowledged. It really wasn't that far up the corridor and Paul sat down with visible relief. "Make sure the door is shut and lets get this out there. What happened?"

"I was sent to parlay with a warlord who was playing both sides. If he refused, I was supposed to kill him. He was Pakistani intelligence, and I arrived framed as a terrorist ahead of my arrival. Eight months of torture later... I gave up, tried to kill myself. Rotted through part of my face instead. SPECTRE got to me a week later, just before starvation and gangrene got me."

Paul nodded slowly. "Took you in, fixed you up , nurtured the righteous anger and hatred. Yeah. Similar scenario for me except never got to escape."

"Where?" When, how long, and why the fuck had he come back?

"Middle East. Straight into a fucking ambush. We were all meant to die. I didn't," Paul sipped his coffee. "And they decided to keep me. I think they thought I was the motherlode of all knowledge if they could get to it. I tried escaping a few times. It didn't go well."

"How are you? How did you... why are you back here?" And when, Christ. How many others had gone out like that? Agents snuffed out like matches.

"It was a team of our guys who eventually pulled me out. About 2 years after you were believed KIA. I did tell MI6 to go fuck themselves.. I tell you what, they screwed themselves over for fucking decades with all that. There was a regime change eventually here, and they started wooing me back. They needed experienced trainers and I was busy falling apart." Paul looked down for a moment and then lifted his leg up on the table where it lunked down. "There was a reason I couldn't run away."

Seb grimaced, and caught himself leaning forward to touch. "I'll spare you and leave my teeth and jaw in. We'd have come for you if I knew you were being held somewhere."

"Ditto if I'd been free at the time." Paul gave a wry smile. "I'm a fucked up mess... They finally got me to stop saying I was fine a while back. "

"Used you as therapist training, then?" He rubbed at the back of his neck, and shifted in closer, taking a sip of his coffee. "Moriarty convinced me that I needed to 'own' how fucked up I am."

"Is that another way of saying 'embrace the chaos'?" Paul queried. "He was a mad fucker, seriously."

"He was." Sebastian took a slow sip of his coffee, and leaned back in his chair again. "And I embraced the chaos for a long fucking time. I gave everything for god and country, and god and country threw me away."

"One part of god and country yes," Paul was looking at him. "Fuck it, I'm not going to say everything is sweetness and light back here, but that administration is gone. Really gone. You and I? Not the first they didn't quite get rid of."

"That's no comfort." Paul down a leg, maybe two. He'd work out what had happened. He, wreck that he was, and turncoat. Seb ran his tongue over his teeth, contemplating. "Why gather us back here?"

"They need us." Paul shrugged a little. "We've got experience. They've got a lot of newbies, not a lot of people with practical knowledge. There's been a fair few bricks in that wall. Knocking back SPECTRE that hard cost them enough so they started looking over the scrapheap for salvage. That's what I think anyway. "

And, SPECTRE's number two was right there. He wasn't even an excellent choice in salvage, he was an asset to be used. Again. And Paul... "Who got you out?"

"One of the rescue teams. There have a few agents dedicated mainly to rescue and support ops with medics on board. Holmes got the information, they followed up. This new M is… cold but efficient. There's no pissing about with him." Paul shrugged. "There's no magic wand Seb that anyone is going to wave and you'll be happy about everything but I suspect SPECTRE had similar bouts of internal politics and you won’t be the first agent to cross the border and come back again."

He had a horrible compulsion to get up, to wonder the room, to pace. As it was, his hand started to shake even as he steadied it on the coffee cup. "I thought I was going to die back on the island. I thought I'd been shot in the head and could finally just... Go. I'm, I don't have any reason to come back for."

"Yeah, I know that feeling," Paul said heavily. "I cursed the people who saved me a blue streak because they weren't allowing me to die. Like it was an ultimate mission goal. A bit of normality helps. It takes time, but things slide sort of gently back into perspective. I'm still screwed up but I don't have a specific death wish any more. Just the one I had before."

"I'm fairly sure I lost my mind, Paul." And normalcy was supposed to fix him? "I..." But he'd done an excellent job of pretending.

"Yeah." Other people might have rushed to reassure him that no he hadn't but Paul always told his men the truth even if it was unpleasant. They went into ops with him knowing how bad the odds were, what their chances were and it wasn't always comfortable, but you knew. "You won't be the first or the last. And there will be a shit load of therapy and all that. And maybe at the end of it you'll go ...'fuck it' and leave. They'll let you though...what they want to do it make sure all those honed skills, the envy of the world, isn't directed at them."

He laughed, and slouched in his chair. "God, they really have changed if they want to do that with therapists and not a bullet. So are you cleared yet, or?"

"Yeah. Cleared enough anyway." He sipped his coffee. "Look, the deal is going to be...if you want back in, you go through the therapy and rehab course. If you want out...you go through the therapy and rehab course."

He ran a hand over his eyes, and let out what felt like an oddly helpless laugh. "Therapy and rehab it is, then. I don't know what I want, what..." What came next, because that had never been an option before. His family thought he was a decade gone. And Paul had found the strength or the weakness to come crawling back to mi6.

"History gets rewritten, I can tell you that," Paul murmured. "Both ways. You think about the legendary 003, how similar that story is to yours… and then think about really how similar it is."  
003, the Agent held up as the epitome of the long term cover. Who had gone into an organisation and spent years working way up through the ranks, deep cover until he penetrated the top of organisation and then took them all down in a blaze of glory, wiping it from the face of the world.

"Hmh." He leaned back again, and closed his eyes. "What's the schedule for today, then?"

"You go get checked out at the Infirmary, meet the various rehab people. Probably have another debrief… I had fucking debrief forever, then we go get you settled in some accommodation, or go house hunting." Paul replied.

Simple or as hard as that. Seb started to stand up, letting himself feel that bone deep restlessness. "Then back to the infirmary. Are you coming with me?"

"Yeah. I get to tag around most of the day," Paul answered shifting stiffly. "Besides I'm working in a new prosthetic. Q is tinkering with something and I'm waiting to try it out."

"Good that they're letting you get some benefit from them." He watched Paul, known for his feline grace, stand stiffly. Broken hips at some point as well. "Was letting me out last night a test, then?"

"Oh yeah. Although technically you were in the company of an agent all the time." Paul grinned a little. "Did you have fun?"

Just as well he hadn't made a choice that could've been interpreted as a power play, though it left he wondering if Watson was in on it. So hard to tell most days. "I did. Once we left and stopped watching 007 relish his victory. Moriarty was obsessed with him." He leaned over, picked up his coffee absently. "To the point where I think if he could have skinned the man and worn him like a coat, he would have."

"From what I gather it was mutual. A good old fashioned nemesis," Paul shrugged. "007 is traditionally our finest and Holmes is… well, he is up there, I'll give him that for all he's an arrogant bastard sometimes.

"I thought that went with the job as well, 008." He took a sip of his coffee, and nudged the door open, scanning the room for cameras mostly out of habit.

"Haven't been 008 for some time. Most people don't believe I ever was," Paul replied. "We're chosen for different things. 008 are... more rough and ready that the sevens."

"And what the hell are the 005s?" He waited, trying to jot outpace Paul as they walked.

"Tradition for marksmenship," Paul raised his eyebrows at him.

"Good thing I've still got both eyes, then. Small fucking miracle." He let Paul take the inside -- even if he didn’t know his way to the coffee machine, he knew his way back to the infirmary. That they'd let him out at all was still a miracle, and now he wondered just what the inspection would entail.

But at least he had company.

Paul was quiet then, and Seb jointed him, the two of them ambling through the halls relatively early on a Saturday. It was quiet, though operations never stopped -- people just felt more subdued working on Saturdays. He held the door for Paul, headed into a side room that he was directed to. The instructions were to strip down to his skivvies and remove any prosthetics. There was probably an x-ray or an MRI to follow, Seb supposed, and Paul sat down with his old familiar disinterest as Seb followed the instructions.

They were waiting there a while before a familiar figure came in in hurry.

"Sorry to keep you, I've just got in. The other doctor is on an emergency and I wasn't due in until.." It was then Watson looked up and his expression was comical. "Bloody hell! I can't do you."

"I think you'll find you already have," Paul sid dryly from where he was sitting.

"I like the white lab coat. Looks good on you." He had his legs crossed loosely at the ankle, and he'd been considering what to do about his facial prosthetic, because it made talking a bitch without it. "I followed most of the instructions, but you probably don't want me near an MRI."

"Have a robe a moment. I need to get clearance to do a physical on you," John said. "We don't have many doctors so I guess it will be signed off, but..."

"Relax Doc, it's not the NHS. There didn't used to be dedicated medical agents. This is definitely an improvement," Paul said.

He could still see John looking uncomfortable with it, as he backed out of the room, and shut the door behind himself. Seb shifted, grabbed a robe to slip on, for all the good it would do, and glanced over at Paul. "That's interesting."

"Might not be a coincidence," Paul agreed. "But he doesn't know anything about it."

"Hmmm. This doesn't surprise me." It made him wonder if it was 007 or M who was up to it, because John had thought he hadn't needed to get up in the morning. He settled back in, and decided it was best to remove his teeth and palate, and cheekbone piece, to hold onto it and wait. It came away with a wet noise, leaving sagging skin with nothing to cover as he glanced over to Paul.

"Nice piece," Paul commented. "Thought I remembered you with a crooked front tooth. Could have been an implant."

"No, that was real." He took his time saying that, swallowed to wet his mouth. No doctor needed to really inspect it, he didn't think, but he needed to be ready.

"Mm. Excellent plastic surgeon then." Paul said. "Lucky your tongue is intact. They haven't worked out a substitute for that."

"Matter of time." Now it was a waiting game, waiting for the doctor to come back, trying to not let his tongue wander and touch things it shouldn't have. He was trying to not drool.

Eventually John returned with a faint flush to his cheeks that implied he had been horribly embarrassed in the interim. 

"Apparently I am signed off to do a physical assessment and recommendations on you," he said. "Sorry for keeping you waiting" He glanced at Paul. "You have to be here?"

"Pretty much." Paul said sitting back.

"Okay, lets see.." He seemed to spot the prosthetic. "You have a prosthetic jaw?"

"Upper and cheek." He swallowed again, talking carefully, precisely as possible. He was sort of horrifying looking without it, and Jim had pretty much banned him from not wearing it, which hadn't actually been much of an argument. "Cyanide tooth wasn't strong enough."

"Let me just document it," John said fetching a camera from a drawer. "We have a very high tech whole body camera that documents everything, but it doesn't pick up internal items."

He was rather looking forward to putting it back in, but held it, ready for clinical style documentation, ready to move on with it. "Few screws and plates as well, but they don't come out."

He snapped some photos of it, and then nodded. "Thanks for that, feel free to put it back in. Right let’s take a look at what we did when you came in." He turned to the computer pulling up a file. "Looks like they did a full series of x-rays. Notes just say I need to document injury sites, historical injuries and illness and let the full body scanner do it's thing first."

"It's like one of those spray tan things." Paul said. "Had to be done when I came in."

He tilted his head down, and carefully fitted the damn thing back in, settling it with the efficiency of years of practice. It felt good to not be sagging, for his eye to not unaligned ever so slightly. "You say that with the air of a man who's accustomed to spray tan, Paul. That's kind of creepy."

"Yeah, you know me… always down at the spa having a fucking manicure or something," Paul said easily.

"We'll do that first. Only takes five minutes and it does a lot of the documenting for us. There's some computer software that logs individual incidences," John said.

"Does it? What kind of information does it give you?" He slid off of the bed, watching John move towards the door again. "Age of an injury?"

"Approximate age, depth, severity of injury. Possibilities of what caused it," John said. "You will need to be naked."

He glanced at Paul and shrugged. Their little train headed to another room, and he shrugged out of his robe, and his pants before walking toward the machine.

After all, it wasn't anything either of them hadn't seen before.

* * *

John was still getting himself under control from the shock of seeing Seb there, after saying goodbye to him that morning. Realistically he should have realised that it might have been Seb but it hadn't occurred to him in the rushed call in. The scan chamber was something one of the Q's had come up with and had been originally designed as a means of complete visual identification. Another Q had added the sort of recognition software some forensics labs were only now getting and he had something that could give him a solid visual examination rapidly.

"You'll be able to hear us. Try to stand still. You'll see a couple of support in there, I'll ask you to hold on to them at various points okay?"

It was perfect for prisoner and agent documentation, and less intrusive than asking someone to stand still, naked, in front of him. He was accustomed to operating it in privacy, though, and the other agent lingering behind him made John vaguely uncomfortable, though he didn't know whether it was for him or for Seb he felt discomfited. He honestly hadn't expected the prosthetic.

"All right. Standing still." 

"Legs just a little further apart please," he said and he heard the other agent snort behind him.

And then the man stepped up closer, peering at the screen, while Seb repositioned himself. "Better?"

John looked at the read outs. "Take a few deep breaths. The scan lasts 30 seconds and if you can hold your breath for it, that would help."

"Depends if he is still smoking," Paul said sardonically behind him.

"Fuck you, you know I can hear you in here, right?" Because John had his mike on, sure. He heard, watched the outputs change as the man took another deep breath, and another, and then held it.

"Yeah," Paul said leaning back. "Given up yet, Sparky?"

"Sparky?" John asked as he readied the program.

"Paul there was my trainer, back in the day." He exhaled, and took another deep breath before answering, "And no, no, I'm still smoking now and then. How's your liver, huh?"

"Recovering from an overwhelming assault after a few years complete abstinence," Paul said with a faint smile. 

"I know, Colonel Gregson," John said. "You were my third mission in. Hold still Seb, I'm setting this running. The light ahead of you will show when it is running."

He turned his microphone off, but left the transmission on in case Seb was struck with claustrophobia, as more than one agent had been. It kept the two of them from baiting each other, and gave John the opportunity to process what he might want to inspect in greater depth. 

"You have to hand it to SPECTRE for their medical care."

He did at that. He looked at the statistics flooding in, and grimaced a little. The timer was ticking down and the scan was res-ing up. He could do with putting on some weight to sustain the muscle mass he should have. Ten more seconds.

"Could he pass a physical?" Possibly. It depended on what his fitness statistics ended up being, and if the internal scarring had been non-problematic for a long enough period of time to waive off on it. The scan stopped, and Seb sucked in a breath.

"When his shoulder has had more healing time," John said absently as there was a beep. He flicked on the mike. "Okay, you're done Seb, you can come out and get dressed."

He watched the scan resolve, rather than watch the man pull his boxer briefs back on and pull the robe on over it. It felt a bit surreal to mix personal and work, to treat and assess someone he'd slept with, and fuck, it had been a good night. A very good night, with an encore showing in the shower. 

"Held together with bailing wire and duct tape, but he doesn't seem it."

There were a lot of pings from the system, more even than he would have expected from an ordinary agents scan. He was going to have a hell of a print out.

"He has strong constitution," John agreed absently reading the screen. 'Laceration, 2 cm deep, instrument probability -knife, deliberate' came up a lot.

Healed, it was all healed well. There were broken bones that seemed normal, accidental, velocity involved, and then there were the sharp cleaner breaks that came in hard rows, re-breaks. Collar bone, arm, both legs, ribs, hand once, more lacerations. He hadn't paid too much attention to the network of scars, of 'cigarette burn, 1cm wide', because Seb had been compelling and kept him close, and he'd been more tied up in the knotted up muscles underneath. "Hard headed," 'Paul' said, almost fondly.

Hard on one level, but John was responding to something else in the man, something that was vulnerable.

"Your clothes are over there Seb," he said.

The man snorted, and headed for his clothes, while John snuck glances between Seb and the scan. 'Internal burns, Hydrogen cyanide.' The man was squirming into his pants, pulling on his shirt.

So much for the cyanide tooth. He could paint a picture of the torture Seb had gone through. No wonder he had tried to kill himself. John was sure he wouldn't have had the strength to last that long with this level of injury.

"Have a seat. Are you sure you want to discuss everything with the Colonel here?" he asked glancing at the older man.

"A leash goes both ways." He sat back down, perching in a chair this time. "Anyway, Paul knew me when I was fresh in the service."

"Yes but I'm going to be asking you some quite intimate details," he said. 

"He'll tell me anyway," Paul said.

"I likely will. Eventually." He closed his eyes, and then looked at John and met his eyes hard. "So let's start."

"Bone breaks first. I've got a lot, remind me to make sure you've got some decent supplement pill. Got a series here of deliberate rebreaks. Torture or medical?" John asked as clinically as he could.

"Torture. I broke my hand trying to parkour my way from one roof to the other, but the other breaks are torture." He didn't look at the other agent, or the former agent, just kept looking at John.

He nodded typing in the notes next to injuries. "There are a variety of deliberate cuts of a comparatively shallow depth that look deliberate. More torture?"

"Torture." He licked his bottom lip, and there was a distant look for a moment. "You ever sliced a fish up for quick grilling? You, you cut narrow flaps into the skin."

John nodded slowly, glancing at the record of burn marks that over-lapped some of those 2cm deep cuts. "Maybe I should ask if there is anything that isn't connected to torture."

"Any of the bullet wounds," he laughed. "And I broke my tailbone once. Oh stab wound to the shoulder." He gestured to his left shoulder. "But that's about it."

"Right. Which gives you the worst after effects?" John asked classifying the various injuries rapidly based on that information.

"This." He tapped his cheekbone. "I have trouble stomaching food sometimes. I end up drinking a lot of protein drinks, carnation breakfast. Once in a while, my shoulder blade grinds up. Other than that..."

"We'll investigate that further," John said. "Trouble stomaching food? It makes you nauseous?" could be stress related or connected to the facial trauma.

"Keeping it down." If it was stress, that was a problem with missions; if it was something actually damaged, that... was a problem with missions, even if SPECTRE didn't care. "We used to, Moriarty would have to be at this extravagant dinner, eating the richest food in the world -- zebras boiled in ostrich eggs, crazy shit like that, and I'd be standing behind him swigging ensure out of a flask to look like a fucking hardass."

"I'll have to schedule an endoscopy," John said. "You might have developed an ulcer or gastritis. We can do something about that."

"You can try. The acid just... did its damage." And he seemed very calm about it, but John didn't think that was true from the slow shrug. "Anything else?"

"I will study your results and I think we might be able to help with a few things," John said. "It may involve referring you to a few specialists." He was thinking rapidly; there were specialists who had tried stripping a damaged mucosal lining from the intestine for things like ulcerative colitis. That could well work for Seb. A few weeks of pain, but his food functionality back.

It explained why he wasn't quite the build that his musculature and his height should have had, why he was so lean. "All right. It's not like I'm going anywhere into the field anytime soon."

"Any allergies or reactions that I need to put on file?" John asked trying to be all business like. It was hard to even imagine the level of pain that Seb would have been in.

"Sulfa drugs. That was in my old file." He gestured towards the computer.

"No new discoveries after then?" he double checked. Yeah it was there, that was good. 

"He used to be a sonuvabitch before his morning coffee," Paul observed.

"That's not an allergy." Seb pointed out, smirking a little. "That's a personality defect." 

"So how long have you two known each other?" John asked curiously. They had a relationship he was struggling to quantify.

"Since ninety two?" He looked at Paul, and nodded along with him. "When to date my highest service of distinction was being green and involved in the Falklands."

"He was so goddamn green we could have used him as a shamrock on St Patrick's Day," Paul said. "Pissy bastard he was then though, but he could sharpshoot like fucking Robin Hood on crack."

John grinned a little at the description. "Really?"

"I'm still an excellent shot. If you want someone to drop like a rock at a mile..." He snapped his fingers. "That's what I do. I lurk around and look tough, and then I lay in wait for days before I take my shot. Paul was much more the useful muscle as a 00 than I was. More of a jack of all trades." 

"In what way?" John asked curiously. 

"In a drop me in the middle of wilderness and let me hunt down what you want destroyed. Or a strike force strategist. We took out a fair few bases in our time," Paul said.

"Paul was a one man army." And Seb's eyes dropped to Paul's leg, which John remembered was quite, quite gone. He'd seen the man in and around a couple of times. ”And then they decided they wanted him to train a few new promising agents, see if they could bulk up capacity. And then, eventually they decided they wanted to kill us all."

"I heard Sherlock talk about that," John said sitting back. "He even wondered if it was some sort of long term plan of destruction."

"Ah? And what did he decide caused it?" Seb leaned back as well, running a hand back through his hair. 

"Old SPECTRE organisation, he thought. Up and coming, mind, hitting their adversary with a subtle plan," John said apologetically.

"Kill all the agents from a generation, from the inside? Or, fuck it up and miss a few." Seb shook his head, and rubbed fingers over his mouth for a moment. "Fuck. We're wasting your time reminiscing. What other boxes do you need to check?"

 

"I like the reminiscing," John replied with a smile. "But I guess I should get on. I'm going to need to get some bloods off of you for a full screen, a urine sample if you can manage it. I should ask if there is history of heart disease, high blood pressure or diabetes in your family as well."

"None of them run in the family. The most recent historical causes of death for the Moran line have all been suicide." His mouth twisted wryly, and he started to roll up his shirt sleeve, presumably for the blood draw. "Ii~irony, Jim used to sing at me. Christ, he really was a mad bastard."

"Sounds like it," John agreed, but mentally he made a note. There might be a tendency to depression in the family.

"Mad as a box of fucking frogs," Paul pointed out. John got the impression he was assessing him somehow.

"Wouldn't know. Never carried around a box of frogs." He leaned back in the chair, and John moved over to the other side of the room where the sharps were. "Have you taken up wildlife collecting as well in your dotage, Paul?"

"You're too bloody southern to get the reference," Paul complained. "When can I start him on PT?"

"His shoulder needs to heal some more," John said. "And I mean, roughly about a week before he should even attempt to do running."

"Am I cleared for anything?" There was a brightness in his expression as he asked it, because, sure, apparently John had already cleared him for *one* kind of physical activity, by dint of helping him get on with it.

"Well, you are cleared to go and see the therapists?" John said apologetically. "Also, I'm going to call in a specialist physio to work with you on loosening up your injury sites. Your shoulder. Over the next few days I'll probably have you in a lot. Mi6 has a good medical service."

"They always did." He waited for John to come back with the wipe and the vials, arm held out and ready. 

It was a skill he was good at but he was distracted by the feel of Seb's skin for a moment before he found a vein. "No needle phobia then?"

Seb was watching it casually, and gave a started laugh. "No, no needle phobia."

"You'd be surprised at the agents who go out there, defying death, flinging themselves from rooftops, in the middle of explosions without turning a hair and then get faint when I break out the needle," john said taking the samples, popping the vials one after another.

"Hmm, no. Never been a problem. I'm not frightened of much anymore." He held still while John undid the tourniquet.

"I can see that," John said, but he could see was a man who did not value his life enough to fear it being taken away. It was worrying in a way and from Paul's expression he was alert to a warning sign as well.

Seb didn't seem to notice, and rolled his shirt sleeve down. "Sample cups still in the bathroom?"

"Take one and fill it up," John said with a smile. He could stay professional but what he really wanted to do was see if Seb wanted a follow up in a more personal way.

Which was hard to do with Paul watching and judging. Possibly, it was hard to gauge what the man was doing, as Seb got up and headed for the washroom.

"You know doc..." Paul said. "If you want to get to know him, you'll have to ask him. He'll tend not to think you're are interested in a repeat otherwise."

John felt a wave of embarrassment and mumbled. "Thanks, I'll bear that in mind."

It got worse, or better, he wasn't sure, when Seb came back with a cup that was dark enough to make him concerned about dehydration or kidney function. It was hard to juggle personal and professional, and after saying he'd run it, but to increase fluid intake, Seb left with a wave. He smiled as they both headed out leaving him to it. God only knew what was going to do about what Paul said.

Usually, John just fell into relationships. The happened. He asked someone to go back home with him, or for a number, and it happened. There was no follow up needed on his behalf, and that had apparently made him a totally lazy bastard.

"John? M said you were doing checkups."

"Apparently I am," John replied pulling himself together. Sherlock would see through anything unless he distracted him. "Come in for a hangover cure?"

"No." He was studying John, and while he couldn't honestly see everything, it was frightening what he saw and didn't see. "I want to go over the exfill with you."

"Take a seat," John said. He was possibly the only person in the Agency who could tolerate Sherlock when he didn't see the point of acting charming. "You were there for a lot of it Sherlock."

"All of it," he corrected, sitting down in a sprawl. "And I activated the distress signal. Still, I'm, it was too easy. We've missed something." So when he was missing things, it was we.

"You call that too easy?" John asked. There had been injuries and near death even in their team. "It wouldn't have been if Seb...Moran hadn't stopped Moriarty."

"Yes. Which makes me wonder if its a ruse of Moriarty's, and he used Moran as cover to fake his death." Sherlock arched an eyebrow at him. "You saw the body."

"Moriarty's? Yes. Whatever it is I do not believe that Moran's reaction were anything less than real. He might have faked it but it was a damn good fake if he did," John answered.

His body had been shot, and then shredded -- by the piranhas in the tank beneath the meeting room. No one had particularly rushed to fetch him out, and Moran had done it just before the exfill, according to reports. And Sherlock.

He watched Sherlock sigh, and look up at the ceiling. "I'm feeling paranoid, I suppose. The other agents we brought back, I never wondered about."

"So why are you wondering about him?" John asked. He was pretty sure his contact with Seb hadn't been seduction. Certainly not from his side.

"He's the biggest fish we've ever brought back -- biggest reputation as an operative. I expected a little more spitting and ranting and raving, but he's just quietly gone with it." He was tenting his fingers in front of his mouth, watching John. "It's all the hallmarks of someone trying too hard."

"Or the hallmarks of someone whose world has crashed down around him?" John said ad sighed a little. "What did you say to me once? That I see but do not observe? Well this time I think you have observed but not seen."

"Between you and Gregson, the two of you can make sure he's not ruining the world. Do you think you're up to it?" He was teasing John now, he was sure of it. Maybe the whole thing had been a tease.

It was hard to tell with Sherlock sometimes. "Why would it be down to me?" he asked. "Putting Paul with him was a stroke of genius whoever came up with that one."

Sherlock lifted his hand in a wave of acknowledgement, and added, "though it's obvious to anyone. Offer someone a prized mentor to rebond with."

"Yeah, but I think Paul is not completely pro-MI6 Sherlock." John was still half appalled at what the agency had done in that era. The damage was incalculable.

"If you were betrayed and given up for dead, could you ever be pro the agency? That's an unreasonable expectation." But he seemed unwilling to turn coat as Seb had. For the moment.

"Yeah. So, another medal to be put in the classified safe?" John asked.

"Hmn? Oh yes." He waved his hand again, and started to stand up. "I suspect this one will never be declassified. Piranhas."

"I still don't get why he even had piranhas," John said watching the other man. He had gotten off lightly from Sherlock’s usual dissection of his life. "I need to give you a once over. She didn't do everything with just persuasion."

"He had piranhas because he liked to feed people to them," Sherlock noted. "Hmn, she was lovely."

"What injuries did you take?" John queried. There was always a woman involved… although there had been men too. Part of the job and the lifestyle. They were often deadly and beautiful,

"A bit of a bruising, nothing noteworthy. Nothing serious." Sprains were likely, then, because the man was as limber as cooked pasta.

"Shirt off then, I'll check to make sure you don't have a repeat of Prague," John said. That had been a hair raising mission, sent in to get Sherlock out and the resulting debacle ending up with them on the run, Sherlock with a slow internal bleed he was ignoring and some mucky backstreet surgery to save him. Possibly that had been the mission to stick Sherlock with John for life.

No one else was willing to put up with him, and the way Sherlock lied about symptoms, it might end up being a very short life he was stuck with Sherlock for. Sherlock peeled the shirt off, tight and well fitted as always, and commented, "so how was the sex?"

"I'd say none of your business but..." That never stopped Sherlock. "What don’t you tell me how it was?" he challenged. He'd learned to keep Sherlock in one place for boring medical exams with these sorts of challenges.

He snorted, as if the suggestion was beneath him, when John knew it wasn't, and that he liked to get a rise out of John. "Well, I briefly theorized the torture might've left him impotent. Let's see..." He was eyeing the scanner as well as John, waiting for the word from John to move toward it. "The sex was very good. He topped, after giving you a blowjob. I suspect he left the prosthetic in for that, though that's certainly an avenue to explore. Positional... One of you started to give the other small love bites, but I'm going to say Moran won because I can see yours from here."

"How the hell did you figure he gave me a blow job?" John asked still able to be amazed, if not a little embarrassed. He started initializing the scanner after a moment’s distraction.

Sherlock moved towards it, looking pleased with himself. "Fits the personality profile I made of him. Partner pleaser. Likes to really savour a partner, which is actually why I thought he might have been impotent. Possibly its overcompensation for his physical defects. Still, given how you're moving, that doesn't seem to be a concern."

"Sherlock!" John said warningly. "What else did you pick up about him?" Annoying though Sherlock could be, he was useful for information and he wanted to know more about Seb. "Scanner's ready."

"I thought I was discouraged from talking while I'm in here." He smirked as he wandered in.

"Only the thirty seconds it is running," John replied. "I've heard you talk.You can tell me while it is powering up."

"No, no, and ruin your fun? No. It should be interesting to watch this unfold. He's definitely not going to continue quietly acquiescing. That should be interesting." He settled his hands on the hand rests.

"Okay, thirty seconds of silence. Let's see if we can make it all the way through this time," John quipped and set it running. What had Sherlock meant, not continue quietly acquiescing? To him? What did that mean?

To him or to...? John wasn't sure, and he watched Sherlock struggle to not move, to not talk. Thirty seconds was an eternity for the man, a long crawling wait, and then he sucked in a big breath, and exhaled in a stream of thought. "Think of it as lancing an infected wound, Watson."

"Explain for us mere mortals?" John asked relieved to see Sherlock had held still long enough. "Okay, got a clean reading, thank you."

"Years and years of pent up anger at MI6 -- I expect at some point, he'll lash out. Reasonably, one hopes, but that anger has to go somewhere eventually, doesn't it? Gregson as well. Possibly we can discretely have graphics work up some printouts of the former M and put them down in the firing range." Sherlock stepped out, and reached for his shirt as he meandered back to John.

"So you're saying he might lash out at me?" John said checking over the computer analysis. It wasn't always correct but this time it wasn't showing deep tissue trauma, though interestingly an injury that the computer queried as an impact strike from a whip. He raised his eyebrows a little.

"Or anyone who's in the way. If we're lucky, he and Paul will lash out at each other, which should minimize the damage." Sherlock was wry and light as he said that. It was time to ask about the whip.

"A whip strike Sherlock? I don't remember that being in the mission debrief notes," John asked.

"What I get up to in my personal time is just that." He quirked an eyebrow at John. "Or do you want me to further detail to you your private copulations?"

"Like that's a threat. You do that anyway. And to virtually everyone else," John answered. "Personal time eh? Didn't figure you would be into that."

"I'm into interesting and challenging." He crossed his arms over his chest. "Am I clear?"

"Yes. And defensive too," John said dryly. "Someone finally got under your skin Sherlock."

"She has not." Just by denial, he confirmed it. But he was already heading to leave.

"Try not to get in trouble on your leave," John said. Sherlock's scans looked fine, which was a miracle.

"You, either. I need my medical backup still here when I come back." He tapped the doorjamb as he took his leave. 

That, John guessed was as close to a thank you as he was likely to get. Sherlock was probably going to do something that caught his attention on the mission and he couldn't follow up on. Well, he had a lot of follow up to do, organising everything.

It was going to be a long and unexpectedly early morning.


End file.
